


To Thorin

by orphan_account



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Writing & Publishing, Epistolary, M/M, Modern Middle Earth, Pining, Worldbuilding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-22
Updated: 2016-02-22
Packaged: 2018-05-22 16:37:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 801
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6086920
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I cannot wake in this city without thinking of you. I walk Erebor’s streets, and after the initial captivation with the myriad of architecture styles that still somehow seem to fit together my mind inevitably wanders back towards you.</p>
            </blockquote>





	To Thorin

**Author's Note:**

> Dedicated to A.C.

I have been in love with you since the day I first read your work.

The way you painted with words left me breathless; the way you evoked deep-seated emotions left me reeling, as if you had reached deep inside me and plucked at the very strings of my heart. You spoke with all of yours of the beauty of your city, the great city of Erebor, a wondrous jewel lying halfway across the world from me. You spoke of her spires, her bridges, her rich history, the waters of the Celduin shining with the reflection of the King’s Residence carved into the very stones of the Mountain itself.

You awoke within me a desire to see the world, to see this city in person, to walk her cobblestoned streets and listen to her heartbeat. To live in the moment of being _there_. Being in Erebor. With you.

When Gandalf offered me a chance to go to the Republic of Erebor, to study Ereborean literature and history, I jumped at the chance. Of course I had my moments of doubt, filling out the paperwork and ordering my ticket and even the night before as I packed my bags. _Would it be cold there_?

 _Pretty mild_ , you say. _But currently it is snowing here. I cannot wait to see you, Mr Baggins_.

The plane lands and I am swept through Dale, past the Long Lake, up the winding paths to Erebor, and I am _here_ , in your city, walking your streets, listening to the heartbeat that you wrote about. The old clock in the King’s Square chimes eight and the wind is cold.

I cannot wake in this city without thinking of you. I walk Erebor’s streets, and after the initial captivation with the myriad of architecture styles that still somehow seem to fit together my mind inevitably wanders back towards you. I know very little Khuzdul, I’m afraid, and the little I know is not very good, but when I listen to it on the Id-ethak, my heart skips a beat. _Republic Square. Durin Square. National Theatre_. _Dwarrowdelf Bridge._ Each place name, though I hear it in another tongue, feels like an old friend.

Even the Khuzdul word for your city — Azsâlul’abad — makes my breath fall short and my heart feel full, like when I am with you.

Our meetings are brief, momentary connections, flickers and sparks of recognition as small as a candle’s flame. Yet I am a moth, forever drawn into the orbit of that fire, fearing and yearning for closeness in equal measure. It is not something I can have, nor do I deserve it. I have long forgotten what it feels to love freely and openly, my heart broken far too many times in my younger years for me to believe in miracles now.

But still, it is happier when it is with you, when I am thinking of you. I do not blame you if you do not accept it — if you cannot accept it. It is a poor heart, hardened over the years against the probabilities of love and the softening of emotion. I may not look it, but I do feel it with every waking second, with every beat of this steadfast old thing.

I am in love with a country I do not belong to, with a city that is not mine. My home lies halfway around the world in the Shire, in a cottage in the suburbs of Hobbiton where my kettle is too slow and nothing ever happens. Yet my breath never fails to catch at the sight of the King’s Residence, and the sunlight gleaming off its magnificent carven stone spires. My heart never fails to race when I see the golden dome of the National Theatre, when I see the statue in Durin Square, when I feel the ground rumble at the arrival of the oncoming Id-ethak. And when I smell the baking blueberry cupcakes in the corner bakery, my heart blooms just a little more.

You once said you would write of the fleetingness of life, of the destinies of strangers, of the vastness of the world when we are still so small and insignificant. You would write of multiple lives, of destinies intertwining and people meeting. And perhaps you would be right. In one life, we are lovers, King and Consort against the rest of the world. In one life, an exiled prince and his steadfast burglar. In one life, a brave soldier and an old war-scarred professor. We would live and die and hate and love, over, and over, and over.

In this one I am as in love with your city as I am with you. In this one I can hear Erebor’s heartbeat and I wonder what it would feel like to hear yours.

 


End file.
